Learning that the lead actor from films like Point Break and The Matrix also slaps bass in a band called Dogstar came as a surprise for me. The sort that at least merrited a bemused exhale through the nose and a quick Google search as I paused my search for upcoming events to include in our newsletter. What was meant to be a brief overture became a week spent marinating in the band’s discography – the soundtrack to my daily grind and nightly unwinding – as I immersed myself in the vibe.

Before long, I began to elucidate my friends as to what I referred to as ‘Keanu Reeves’ band’. “Do you like Keanu Reeves?” I’d ask. “Most recognise him for his roles on the big screen, but there’s this whole other facet to him – a grunge layer revealed through his band, reminiscent of the post-Nirvana scene and offshoots like Foo Fighters. At first, their music struck me as slightly out of time, as if a band from the ’70s somehow got stranded in the ’90s Seattle music era. It’s fascinating really. The ’70s heralded a zenith in rock history, marked by its raw, undiluted energy, something the ’90s seemed to chase after, albeit warped by cynicism and irony.”

Inexplicably, they veer into the bathroom stall, leaving me humming “I want to live in America” alone by the urinals, a personal favourite. I’d lose myself in visions of smoke-filled, dimly lit dens, populated with disheveled youths in flannel and ripped denim, nursing soon-to-be ripped bongs in their laps while Led Zeppelin plays and General Schwarzkopf lauds U.S. air superiority in Iraq on a flickering TV screen. “I want to be alone and free,” the lyrics echo, bouncing off the restroom’s tiled walls with an acoustic quality found only in the grimiest of Ljubljana’s diver bars. In other words, perfect.

There’s something to be said about the rise of grunge at the Cold War’s denoument. Its deep cynicism and rejection of consumerism cut charply through Fukuyama’s professed “end of history” and Mearsheimer’s “unipolar moment”. Concepts, once heavy with meaning, now cheapened by their overuse and evoked only for the sake of depth and academic rigour – remember, I was still humming in the bathroom at that point. Free markets and democracy were hailed triumphant, even as the American dream was marred by the detritus of heroin, poverty and racial strife. Grunge didn’t offer remedies; it mirrored a generation too deep in the fog to even care. “I want to be alone and free,” was a lament for the times.

Art, in its myriad forms, is a chameleon of expression – it harbors the ability to morph and reveal itself in layers. Whether it’s a well-loved novel or a song that sticks, engaging with it is as much an exploration into our own consciousness as it is into the mind of the artist. Fortunately, both extend beyond the scope of this article, but I think I can venture to at least surmise the latter and answer the more obvious question, dear reader, that’s been stuck in your head since you saw the title: Why is Keanu Reeves in a band named Dogstar and are they any good?

It’s not uncommon for movie stars to take on passion projects and veer into music, though they often amount to little more than vanity projects, with sheepish audiences of fans bobbing their heads politely to songs lacking heart. Bruce Willis’ brief stint as a jazz musician after playing a blues singer, comes to mind. Yet Keanu, with stark honesty, acknowledged his place in Dogstar, and the modesty with which he views their craft. “We’re terrible.”

Before they were known as Dogstar, the band’s story began with a chance encounter in a Gelson’s supermarket in 1991. There, Toronto-born Keanu, spotting a man in a Detroit Red Wings jersey – Robert Mailhouse, known for his role in the soap Days of Our Lives as police officer Brian Scofield – struck up a conversation about hockey, and the two soon found their shared passion for music. Keanu on bass, Robert on drums, the pair added a third – singer and guitarist Greg Miller.

Poring over videos of the band’s early performances and a cursory glance at their Wikipedia page, Keanu doesn’t at any point parade as actor/musician. He doesn’t seem to have the restless urge of most creatives, that drives them to do it all or die by the time they’re 27. Moreover, on stage, he’s off to the side, head down, foot tapping and keeping time. He’s Keanu Reeves, but on there, just another bass player.

Finding something that teeters on the edge of the genuine can be a daunting task in California, especially among actors. Starting a band off a chance encounter with a guy, just because you’re both into hockey, is as real as it gets. The band crystallizes the addagge of the now-defunct TikTok precursor, Vine, of “guys being dudes” – for example, men becoming blood brothers with the first person they sat next to during induction week of university.  Being part of Dogstar offers Keanu a respite, a chance to unwind and indulge in what he loves, surrounded by a tight-knit circle of friends, far from the glare of entertainment journalists’ sycophantic, artificial grins.

Despite his widespread appeal and a certain fondness from the press – earning him accolades as “the nicest human being” – fame brings with it its own set of pressures, setting a bar of expectations that accompanies his every move.

Ironically, Dogstar’s fame hinges on Keanu, despite their obscure beginnings. They waver between names like Small Faecal Matter and BSF – shorthand for either Big Fucking Sound or Bull Fucking Shit. “I had long ceased to be interested in her contortions; except for the part of me that was in her I was as cool as a cucumber and remote as the Dog Star,” reads the line from Henry Miller’s book Sexus that inspired the more palatable name for their live performances.

Shows soon sell out and lead singer Miller departs, replaced by Bret Domrose. Dogstar tours the U.S. and Asia, opening for legends like David Bowie and Bon Jovi in ’95 in Australia and New Zealand. They debut with the EP Quattro Formaggi, then release Our Little Visionary, available only in Japan.

Balancing Keanu’s acting career, Dogstar released Happy Ending in 1999. Their final show was in 2002 in Japan, leading to an unofficial hiatus. Despite not formally pausing or producing new music for two decades, they occasionally played small venues.

The band made a comeback alongside the release of Matrix Resurrections in 2021, and, like all good things, it started with breakfast. “There was a premiere for Matrix 4 in San Francisco, and the next morning we had breakfast,” said Keanu in an interview for Entertainment Weekly. “That was the initial spark.” Dogstar returned to a major stage at the BottleRock Napa Valley Festival in May of last year. Their latest album, Somewhere Between the Power Lines and Palm Trees, was released in October, with performances at INMusic Festival in Zagreb and Arsenal fest in Kragujevac planned for June of this year.

To answer the question of whether they’re easy on the ears, it’s best to ignore Keanu’s remarks. Artists are often their own harshest critics, and Dogstar’s history of headlining shows alongside icons like Bowie and Bon Jovi suggests they’re far from lacking in talent. Indeed, Keanu’s celebrity alone wouldn’t have sufficed to cover for any musical shortcomings. Moreover, my willingness to listen to their music for a week straight implies I’m not engaging in self-torture — I’d like to think I’m still too young for that.

Dogstar demonstrated a versatile range. They can shift from anthem-like rock songs filled with emotive guitar solos to quieter, narrative-driven tracks. This duality in their music allows them to navigate seamlessly from lively indie surf rock, characterized by jangling guitars, to more elaborate pieces tinged with the depth of progressive rock and grunge.

“The idea originated from the graphics portfolio developed for the Munich Olympics in 1972,” recalls Lazo, tracing back to the project’s inception. “At that time I had galleries in Milan and Vienna. One day at home, I accidentally watched the jubilant celebration of Sarajevo winning the Olympics on television which sparked the inspiration. I turned to Živa and said, ‘I’ll go to Sarajevo to offer the Art project.’ And so, it began.”

Despite the Sarajevo Olympics Committee lacking the financial means to support the project, their endorsement provided a crucial boost. “Politicians recognised the potential of culture in promoting our country,” emphasizes Lazo.

But embarking on this venture proved financially daunting, as the Vujić funded the project independently. “Living in a communist country, with Živa based in Ljubljana and myself seeking opportunities globally, securing partners was imperative,” explains Lazo. Živa’s invaluable expertise as an art historian and curator of the International Graphic Biennial proved instrumental in navigating the artistic landscape.

The project commenced in autumn 1982, with less than a year to finalise everything before the Olympics. “Promoting the project before the games was crucial,” emphasizes Lazo. “We strategically utilised museum exhibitions, television, and other mediums to showcase the artistic creations and the Olympic spirit.”

Establishing connections with artists like Henry Moore and Andy Warhol was pivotal. “Moore’s endorsement propelled the project forward,” Lazo recalls. “When he heard it was for Yugoslavia, he immediately said ‘I’m in!’ He didn’t ask anything.”

Živa adds that coming from Yugoslavia at that time was an advantage, helping to open doors: “Yugoslavia meant something then. We were some kind of exotic enigma.”

After meeting Moore in London, they flew to New York to meet Andy Warhol. “When he received me, his business manager Frederick Hughes was with him,” Lazo recalls. “Warhol was walking in front of me and asked, ‘Who else do you have in the project?’ I told him ‘I’ve just been with Moore two days ago.’ He then said, ’If Moore’s in, I am in, too.’ And that was it. Then he just asked me ‘When does the project need to be finished?’ adding straight away: ‘I know, yesterday!’”

Challenges abounded, from organisational logistics to financial strains incurred through extensive travel. Yet, the culmination was a portfolio boasting original prints from esteemed artists, each imbued with the essence of the Olympics: Piero Dorazio, Jean-Michel Folon, Emilio Greco, Gottfried Helnwein, Howard Hodgkin, Hwang Kyu-Baik, Jiri Kolar, Henry Moore, Friedensreich Hundertwasser, Dzevad Hozo, Mimmo Paladino, Michelangelo Pistoletto, David Hockney, James Rosenquist, Giuseppe Santomaso, Gabrijel Stupica, Cy Twombly, and Andy Warhol.

Three other artists – Milton Glaser, a popular graphic designer at the time who created the I Love New York logo; Yozo Hamaguchi from Japan; and Francesco Clemente from Italy – provided motifs which were featured as posters, printed in limited series.

Reflecting on cherished memories, the couple recounts moments spent with Henry Moore and the vibrant New York art scene.

“The most beautiful memories are the times we spent with Henry Moore. We were guests at his estate outside London several times, afternoon teas and conversation at his home were charming,” Živa recalls.

Lazo further reminisces: “In New York at that time, there was always a party somewhere. Once, James Rosenquist was celebrating his birthday, and the entire art world was there. I’m at the airport due to fly to California, and he says to me ‘you’ll regret it’ and then lets me hear a jazz band play in the background. I stayed, of course!”

It was Robert Rauschenberg who introduced them to Rosenquist. “Rauschenberg was not only kind as a person but extremely welcoming,” says Živa, adding, “Rauschenberg’s warmth and Rosenquist’s joviality remain etched in our memories.”

The Sarajevo Olympics Art Project stands as a testament to the transformative power of art, uniting nations in a celebration of creativity and athleticism. Amidst the echoes of history, it remains a beacon of cultural splendour and artistic legacy.